


Come Along for the Ride

by OtterSwirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Boundaries, Condoms, Consensual, Consensual Kink, Consensual Possession, Consensual Sex, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), F/M, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentioned Sergeant Shadwell (Good Omens), Negotiations, Penis In Vagina Sex, Possession, Sex Work, Spanking, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtterSwirl/pseuds/OtterSwirl
Summary: Before they leave for Tadfield, Madame Tracy insists on going ahead with a professional domination booking. Aziraphale has an Experience.Note: Aziraphale/Crowley established relationship is background, but the work mostly centers on Aziraphale, Madame Tracy, and her client.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69





	Come Along for the Ride

This wasn't the first time Madame Tracy had encountered a spirit. But it was the first time she'd been possessed by one.

It tingled, when it entered her. A frisson that rippled through her whole body, followed by a long moment of intense disorientation. For a minute, she forgot about Beryl Ormerod, forgot she was in her living room. For a minute, she forgot she was human at all. There was just a fluttering of white and gold against the black, and the impression of beating wings...

Then she was back at the living room table, and feeling very odd indeed. She was in her body, but there was someone else here too. She felt a pressure, as if there wasn't enough space inside her head. It was like the start of a migraine, only more interesting.

Without intending to, she was looking around the room, staring at Julia and Beryl and Mr Scroggie as if she'd never seen them before. She moved her hand experimentally. Good. She could still move her body. But so could something - _someone_ \- else.

Madame Tracy considered herself quite accepting, but she'd never had a dead person inside her before.

The intruder used her tongue to speak, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. His voice - and it was clear, now, that it was a him - was a plummy baritone. The sort of voice made for reading Keats in a punt over strawberries and champagne.O right now it had a tinge of urgency, as if the punt had capsized and the champagne had run out.

She gave the foreign presence in her mind a little shove. It was as unyielding as bronze, and the contact left her with a shimmering sensation, as if she'd brushed against a gong. She got the impression that if she pushed any harder she would have the mother of all headaches.

Madame Tracy held her tongue. The voice was a good effect, much better than she could normally manage. If she let this play out it might be good for business.

Then he started inviting other dead people into her already crowded body, and she got royally pissed off.

*

"So you're not dead, then."

"Not in the usual sense, no. Merely temporarily discorporated."

"Do you normally barge into people's heads when you're discombobulated?"

"I've never actually lost track of my body before. I was rather fond of it."

Madame Tracy sipped her tea, and wished she'd added a third sugar. 

"I don't actually believe in God, you know," she volunteered. "But angels are just guardian spirits, aren't they?"

"Right now, dear lady, this one is _trying_ to guard your whole benighted planet against the Ineffable Plan of the deity you don't believe in. Now listen, this is very important -"

"No _, you_ listen to me. On _this_ planet it's very rude to barge in without an invitation. I've got no patience for pushy men. If you won't treat me with respect you can get out, right now."

There was a pause. Madame Tracy's body held very still. She was aware of the pit of terror yawning beneath her rage, the fear that she couldn't _make_ him leave. That he could take her over for good if he felt like it. Squeeze her into a helpless corner of her own mind until she faded away or went mad.

But she had years of practice. It had been a long time since a client had got the better of her. The key was self-respect. If _you_ believed you deserved to be treated well, the other person usually went along with it.

Madame Tracy watched her hand pick up the other teacup. She was aware of tension vibrating throughout her body, muscles twitching as they were sent competing impulses.

"We seem to have got off to a bad start," Aziraphale said. "My apologies. Madam, may I beg the use of your corporation for long enough to finish explaining? And once you've heard what I have to say, if you still want me to, I shall leave."

*

She picked up the teapot, but it was empty.

She was going to need to pee soon, and how was that going to work? "I need the little girl's room," she announced. "If you're going to stick around, you'll have to put up with the fact that _some_ of us still have bodily functions." 

"Ah, I - er -"

"Do angels not need to piss?"

"No, we do not. Nor do we need to eat, drink, or sleep - "

"So where does the tea go?"

"If you must know, our corporations reabsorb it. They're made of aether, not gross matter."

"Fat lot of good that did you. _Gross matter_ it may be, but I'm fond of it."

Madame Tracy got comfortable on the loo. She fancied she could feel the presence in her mind squirming. Bet _this_ was a first for Mr Aziraphale. She was beginning to enjoy herself.

He didn't say a word until she'd finished washing her hands. She wished she could tell what he was thinking, but as soon as she thought of it she was glad she couldn't. If _she_ could hear _his_ thoughts then _he_ could hear _hers_. And that wouldn't do at all. Like many people who were comfortable naked, Madame Tracy prized her real privacy highly.

On her way back to the living room she cocked an ear at the bedroom door. She could hear the sound of thick, irregular snores, like lumpy custard gurgling through rusted pipes. Good. Mr Shadwell had looked like he needed the rest, poor love.

Aziraphale was just launching into an urgent plea for her attention on the matter of the apocalypse when the phone rang. She picked it up.

"Um, is that Tracy?"

"Madame Tracy, yes."

"Oh, right. I saw your ad. When are you available?"

Madame Tracy asked which ad. She picked up a pen and wrote 'discipline' on the pad of paper next to the phone. She doodled a few stars and moons in the margin. After a few more moments, she wrote underneath it 'Barry. Tie and tease. Tickling. Feet (mine).' Shortly after, '7pm, Monday'.

"Ah, I'm afraid that won't be possible," a plummy voice interrupted. "The world is ending tonight -"

"Do excuse me, Barry love -"

"Is that your husband?"

"Really, haste is of the utmost importance -"

"- I'm so sorry, someone's on the other line." 

Madame Tracy slammed the phone down. She marched over to the gold-framed mirror on the wall and glared at it.

" _How dare you_ ," she said, voice shaking with controlled fury. Her reflection seemed to flicker, like a TV set that wasn't tuned properly. She could see her own face, but she could also see another face overlaid on it. A dimpled male face with tight white curls, forehead furrowed. She saw his mouth - _her_ mouth - open to speak, and with an internal shove she cut him off.

"That was a client. A client who has probably been scared off for good. Who wanted to _pay me_." The flickering was starting to give her a headache. She shifted her focus to the corner of the mirror. In her peripheral vision great white feathers unfurled. "Do you know how hard it is for those poor chaps to summon the nerve to contact me? Do you have any idea how terrifying it is if they think a man is listening in to their most secret fantasies? No - shut up - I've not finished yet. I have a professional reputation to maintain!"

She took a breath. Her reflection was surrounded by a soft nimbus. She felt her bottom lip being chewed.

"I feel you aren't taking this sufficiently seriously," Aziraphale fretted. "Time really is of the essence -"

"We've got time to lay down some ground rules," she said. "You're a guest in this body. You said you'd leave if I asked. Now I'm happy to hear all about your plan for stopping the Apocalypse. I'm sure it's a good one. And after it's averted, I want to make sure I still have a life to come back to. Now it's quarter past four and I've got a client at five. So if you don't mind, you'll have to tell me about it while I'm getting ready."

"My dear lady, we don't have time -"

"You're going to tell me about it anyway. You might as well tell me while I get my face on." Looking at her reflection had reminded Madame Tracy that the smudge of blue eyeshadow she'd worn for the seance was woefully inadequate for her evening appointment. 

She sat at her dressing table, pulled out a bulging bag of makeup, and listened.

Halfway through drawing on a pair of darker, more elegant eyebrows, she paused to raise them. "Kill him? You wouldn't."

She batted smoky eyelids to check they were even - one always ended up one more dramatic than the other - while she made a decision. "No. Not over my living body. Not _with_ this body anyway. I'm all for saving the world, but we'll have to find another way. Now hush a minute so I can do my lips."

Aziraphale kept talking as she fluffed her hair, peeled off her skirt and blouse and rummaged in her wardrobe. It was high time she had a stocking clearout, half of these were laddered and it was so hard to find a matching pair.

At quarter to five she sent a text to her client. "I'm all ready for you love, just ring the bell at 5 and I'll pop down and let you in." 

Working into a somewhat battered PVC dress, she interrupted Aziraphale. "Right, we'll go there after my session and figure it out. I'm sure there's a solution. But first, some rules."

She wriggled her toes into a strappy court shoe and tugged at the buckle.

"When my client arrives, you stay quiet.? Understand? This is my job. I've got bills to pay and Bill is a regular. He and I go back a long way. He has ever so much trouble with his sciatica, poor thing, and he hasn't had a lady friend in years. Not that it's any of my business if he has. My point is that I'm not having you opening your mouth - opening _my_ mouth - and cocking it up."

She checked her appearance in the mirror, pulling on the hem of the PVC. The angel looked anxious in the shifting reflection. Well, she could work with that. She modulated her voice, injecting it with the warmth she used to soothe skittish clients.

"There, it's understandable you're worried. The end of the world _is_ quite frightening, isn't it? We'll get you where you need to be, don't you worry."

She opened a drawer and pulled out a black collar and a pair of leather cuffs. They were trimmed in pink fur.

"Once I've got this booking out of the way, I'm all yours. We'll sort it out together. But first I just need you to let me do my thing. It's only an hour. And -"

She paused. He'd been watching humans for thousands of years, hadn't he? Surely he knew how this worked.

"Perhaps I should warn you - you may have a few surprises. But just remember I'm a grown woman who knows her own mind. I don't do anything I don't want to do."

Out of her bedside cabinet came a couple of condoms, a bottle of baby oil and a tube of lubricant. She tucked the condoms inside her bra.

"At the end of the day it's just a job. Beats mopping floors for a living. He's an easy client and I'm fond of him. So no out loud comments please, mister angel. No matter what you think."

She squeezed a bit of lube onto her fingers, reached between her legs and pushed her knickers to one side, massaging the slippery gel over her vulva.

"You like looking after people, right? Well, so do I. Help me look after old Bill. And stay quiet, there's a love."

*

 _Damnation_. He was going to miss the apocalypse. The world was going to end because his host was busy _fornicating_. Why did humans have to be so attached to their little plans?

Should he return to the aether and try to find another body? No, there wasn't time. Not after the trouble he'd had before. It could easily take more than an hour to find another psychic with a suitably open mind, and by the time he'd explained things all over again...

Maybe he should just. You know. Force Madame Tracy's hand. Take over her mind completely, and use her body to get where he needed to be. But that would be... wrong. It would be a greater violation than any she was likely to suffer through the course of her work. And it might harm her mind irreparably. 

Besides, he was beginning to rather like her.

Aziraphale considered sex workers to be under his particular protection. Christ had spoken up for them, after all, and precious few others treated them with respect. His shop had been a refuge for ladies shivering in their underwear, crying furious tears that the police had taken their hard earned cash in the raid and they didn't know how they were going to pay their rent. 

He'd loaned them dressing gowns, miracled up some spare clothes in the shop lost property box ("It's amazing what people leave behind in this part of town, my dear") and given them a hot cup of tea and a biscuit and the use of his phone. He'd had rent boys sleeping on his sofa for weeks at a time while they got settled somewhere safe. 

But he'd never seen them _at work_ before.

It was strictly professional concern, Aziraphale told himself. He had to make sure her client didn't try any funny business. Oh yes, and the chap had sciatica. Very painful. A small miracle might be just the ticket.

It definitely wasn't that he wanted to see what happened.

Bill, when he arrived, was an unassuming man in a bulky jacket. He handed Madame Tracy a bottle of red - Aziraphale saw the label and tried not to cringe - and gave her a peck on each cheek.

"We'll play in the living room today love," she said as she bustled past the bedroom door. "I'm having work done, the pipes are playing up."

Aziraphale extended a small miracle to ensure that the bedroom's occupant stayed asleep.

He watched in fascination as Madame Tracy smoothly conducted the business of putting Bill at ease while discreetly collecting a small sheaf of banknotes and making them disappear. She tucked the notes behind the microwave, and came back from the kitchen with two wine glasses.

Sitting awkwardly on the chaise longue in his shirt sleeves, Bill didn't say much. But he put away a remarkable amount of terrible twist-top wine during fifteen minutes of flirting. Madame Tracy kept an eye on the clock, and the conversation going for both of them. 

She treated Bill to a deluge of professional charm. She giggled, rested a hand on his arm, and brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder. When she refilled Bill's glass (she'd only had a couple of sips, Aziraphale noted) she made sure to lean across him just _so_ , to give him a good view down the front of her PVC dress.

At quarter past five precisely she cooed, "Let's get you more comfortable," and his shirt was off in moments. Aziraphale's shared senses were swamped by the male human scent of Bill: soap, cheap cologne, fresh sweat. His skin, when she trailed her fingertips over it, was powder soft. The details of every hair and freckle leapt out in high definition. He wasn't a beautiful man, but the _realness_ of him was overpowering. Soft skin peppered with sun spots relaxed over hidden muscles. His belly sagged, and his brown nipples stiffened under Madame Tracy's touch.

Aziraphale hadn't been this close to a human in decades - unless you counted Madame Tracy. The corporations he was most familiar with were his own and, of course, Crowley's. He felt a clash of anxiety. What was Crowley doing? Was he safe? And his own body, how was he going to get a new one?

He missed his body almost as much as he missed Crowley. Beloved Crowley, whose lean physique and alabaster skin were so much more beautiful than any human. 

Watching Madame Tracy work, Aziraphale became pleasantly distracted imagining Crowley in Bill's place. When Madame Tracy ran a hand through Bill's hair, gripping it to tilt his head and expose his throat, Aziraphale imagined his fingers buried in auburn curls. He felt a ripple of desire at the thought of the collar closing around Crowley's slender neck. (Oh, not this cheap one. Crowley deserved a beautiful collar of soft, buttery leather.) When Madame Tracy's fingers brushed Bill's semi-hard cock through his trousers and gave it a squeeze, Aziraphale remembered the intoxicating excitement of discovering Crowley's prick hot and hard for him.

Riding Madame Tracy's body was very different from inhabiting his own. Every sensation seemed more acute. Minor physical discomforts pressed on his awareness: the tiny scratches of the condom packets against the sensitive skin of his breast, the burning pressure on the balls of his feet in the heeled shoes. He justified a couple more minor miracles by telling himself they were for Madame Tracy's sake.

Aziraphale had a lot of practice putting humans at ease, and he recognised a master at work. Bill was smoothly divested of his clothes, Madame Tracy's fingertips skimming his body with the promise of more touches to come. She guided him over the cushioned arm of the chaise longue, and moved the pouffe in place for him to rest his upper body. The position supported his back while offering his bare arse up for her attentions.

Aziraphale drank in the new sensations. The goosepimples on Bill's bum as Madame Tracy ran her hands down it. The solidity of his thigh when she leaned into him more closely. The rich, savoury scent wafting up from between his buttocks. 

When Aziraphale made love with Crowley, his attention was given to multiple planes of awareness, glorying in the melding of their multidimensional selves. The feeling of heavy serpent coils sinuously enclosing him, of feathers brushing against feathers, the shimmer of scales and wings. This human to human contact was so much more _physical_.

Madame Tracy tipped baby oil onto her hand, and cooed to Bill as she smoothed it over his rump.

When her palm connected with the flesh of his backside, Aziraphale jumped. So loud! She patterned his arse with pink handprints, and a satisfied groan emerged from where his head was wedged between two cushions. Aziraphale could feel all of it: the smooth texture of his buttocks, the sting in her hand...

And the kick of arousal deep inside Madame Tracy that brought Aziraphale's attention fully to his cunt.

Oh. _Heavens_. This was like...

...Aziraphale is on his back, knees pulled to his chest, his hard cock smearing precum on the fuzz of his belly. Crowley reaches into him with long fingers and _coils_. That feeling of opening, releasing, a molten spill of heat and want. The hunger deep in his core demanding to be filled. Crowley's fingertips wind within him, stoking a glowing ember of pleasure that threatens to engulf his whole being. Crowley looks up wide eyed as Aziraphale bears down on his hand, as if Aziraphale's pleasure is the most extraordinary and wonderful thing he has ever seen...

But no, he was inside Madame Tracy and _she_ was inside Bill: tickling his hole with slippery fingertips, probing and persuading him to open for her. He could feel the hot smoothness within. Madame Tracy gave a satisfied hum.

It wasn't how _Bill_ felt inside that reminded Aziraphale of being fucked by Crowley: it was how Madame Tracy did.

Professional detachment notwithstanding, her body was undoubtedly responding. Aziraphale felt a sweet throb deep within her - his - cunt, a warm gooey feeling that ached to be touched. Aziraphale hadn't had a cunt before. Now he wondered why not. 

He clenched, and felt a pulse of pleasure radiate outwards. A bead of warm fluid squeezed out from between his labia and spilled into the cheap lace panties.

Madame Tracy withdrew her fingers from Bill and wiped them on a tissue she pulled, with better sleight of hand than Aziraphale ever managed, from a box hidden among the cushions. She stepped around and stood close to his face, pulling up the hem of her dress.

"I love making you wriggle," she purred, "it's getting me all excited."

Bill raised his face as best he could, which wasn't much. "I can smell your pussy," he moaned. 

"Yes, dear," Madame Tracy encouraged. She slipped a finger into the panties and gave her clit a gentle press. Lightning sparked up Aziraphale's spine.

"I want to taste it," Bill gasped.

"I bet you do." Madame Tracy made no move to put herself in reach. She worked her hand inside the panties, dipping down to the slipperiness between her labia and drawing the thick moisture up and over her clit. She circled her fingertip, and Aziraphale felt bliss spreading through his limbs, rich and gold like the late afternoon sun bathing them in glory. He wanted her to keep touching it. He considered moving her hand himself. But then, she was the expert. He'd only slow her down.

Madame Tracy pleasured herself, gyrating her hips in what she may have thought was a seductive manner. Bill watched slack-jawed, his tongue crawling on his lower lip. The sight was hardly appetising, but her fingers knew their work. Heat and pleasure spiralled through their shared body, creating a rising sense of urgency. The sensation was so much… _more_ than Aziraphale was used to. It wasn't just focussed in his cunt: it suffused his entire body.

"You've been a good boy," Madame Tracy told Bill, removing her fingers and offering them to him. He slobbered on her hand with a grateful groan. "Sit there for me now," she said. She put a hand under his arm to help him up, and got him swivelled round. His prick was sticking out, and the dark hair on his belly was crushed flat and damp with sweat. Madame Tracy anointed her hand with lubricant and twirled her fingers around his dick. It stood up even straighter. She ran her nails over Bill's body, teasing his nipples and his lips, stroking the soft hollows of his throat. 

Madame Tracy kept on milking Bill's cock while she kicked her heels off, pulled out one of the foil packets and opened it with her teeth. She rolled the condom on and rubbed lube over it. Glanced at the clock. Twenty to six. She turned around and lifted her dress, wiggling her hips. Then she pulled the panties to one side and sat back on his dick.

Oh. _Oh._

Aziraphale understood several things in quick succession.

He understood that Madame Tracy didn't need to be attracted to Bill to take her pleasure. This sweet piercing sensation that struck into the core of her, this rocking movement that stimulated her swollen inner pleasure centre, this was hers for the taking. And now Aziraphale's. Aziraphale wasn't attracted to Bill, and this felt _exquisite._

He understood, from the ache in her thighs and the strong ripples in her cunt, that Madame Tracy was in her element. It had been patronising to think she needed his help. At least not where her job was concerned; there was still Armageddon to think of.

And Aziraphale understood that he had another very good reason to save the world. Having a cunt felt absolutely marvellous. He couldn't wait to show Crowley.

*

Madame Tracy closed the front door with relief. Mr Shadwell had slept right through it, bless him. Probably for the best. And the angel had stayed quiet. He'd let her do her job. She had to respect him for that.

"I bet you don't get any of _that_ in heaven," she smirked, peeling off her dress. 

"No. No Baudelaire or butter poached lobster, either," Aziraphale sighed. "Things might look very different if they did."

*

Two hours later, Aziraphale, still sharing Madame Tracy's body, dismounted the moped under a bruised sky. He could sense Presences here. Four of them. And others.. 

But the Presence he was most interested in was wearing a singed leather jacket, red hair whipped to a peak by the wind, sunglasses reflecting flashes of violet sky.

"Hi," said Crowley, looking him up and down. "Nice dress."

Oh my love, Aziraphale thought. You don't know the half of it. Just wait 'til you see the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever post! Thanks to Juliet for the beta and reassurance. Sex work is real work.


End file.
